


The Lake Effect

by BristlingBassoon



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - 20th-21st c., Political RPF - US 21st c., Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canada, F/F, Fluff, Lake Ontario, Lin Manuel-Miranda as Hot Shakespeare, M/M, Sault Ste.Marie, houseboat, this is very silly, trubama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 17:44:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7448260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BristlingBassoon/pseuds/BristlingBassoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barack and Justin have a disagreement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lake Effect

**Author's Note:**

> So my previous Obama/Trudeau fics were...rather sombre and wistful. As a consequence I just decided to write something wholeheartedly silly. It's completely divergent from real life, because when I think about how this relationship would go in real life if it existed, it would probably be very complicated and anguished and sad, so instead we've got...whatever the hell this is! Let's go with it. 
> 
> I don't know if I'll write more. Probably not, but I'll leave the possibility open for now.

Barack loved his country. Justin loved his. After one too many squabbles about where they should live, they compromised and got a houseboat they named _Miranda_ , dropping anchor slap-bang in the middle of Lake Ontario. There they pottered about contentedly, fishing, birdwatching, reading novels from the Rochester library and swearing at the bad cellphone reception.

 

One June morning, Justin was woken by three things - a ray of sunshine falling across his bed, the smell of coffee and Barack coming into the room holding the paper. 

“Here’s today’s Globe and Mail,” he called, throwing the paper on the bed while Justin struggled to untangle himself from the bedsheets, cursing his morning weakness.

“Why do you always have to _do_ that?” grumbled Justin in the gravel-pit voice of the half awake.

“I made you some coffee,” said Barack. 

“Cheers,” Justin grunted, taking the proffered cup, a commemorative mug from St.Viateur bagel. It was a really annoying mug because it had the capacity of an eggcup, but it had an anthropomorphised bagel on it and that was good enough for him. He then began unwrapping the paper, which was covered in that stupid plastic wrap that stuck to itself, and somehow managed to get the plastic stuck to his face as well.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Barack said, smiling at Justin’s morning struggle. He’d already been up for an hour, no doubt taking his morning swim. 

“Fine, do that,” Justin said. “Go and…do whatever it is that you do while I figure out what’s happening in the world.” Barack began walking out of the room. “Stupid boat internet reception. God, if only we’d just moved to Toronto like I was suggesting.”

“I heard that!” Barack called. 

Justin finally got the _Globe and Mail_ open. A full-sized pin-up poster of Lin Manuel-Miranda as Hot Shakespeare fell out. “Neat,” Justin exclaimed, wondering if there was a space on the boat where he could hang it up. But he didn’t have very long to think about that, before a news report on the front page caught his eye. 

 

_STEPHEN HARPER DIES IN SHOCKING HIGHWAY “MOOSE IMPERSONATION” ACCIDENT._

 

“Hey!” yelled Justin, “Listen to this!”

He began to read the story out-loud, in an oratory voice that carried the entire length of the boat. 

 

_“Former PM and Conservative politician Stephen Harper was declared dead last night after an accident on a highway outside Sault Ste.Marie in Western Ontario._

_At 2.32 AM Mr Harper was hit by an off-duty ice road trucker and killed instantly. The driver called emergency services….”_

 

“What was that?” called Barack. He came into the room holding a tea towel.

Justin scanned ahead. “Holy shit, this story’s weirder than I thought. _Mr Harper was dressed as a moose at the time of the accident.”_

“What?” 

_“He is believed to have been a member of a local furry community. Furries are a subculture of people who dress as animals, sometimes for sexual gratification -“_

“Oh eww, stop, I don’t want to think about it,” Barack interrupted.

_“Mr Harper was described as having a moose persona - or “_ fursona.” _At the time of the accident he was wearing a -‘_

 

“Right, that’s it,” declared Barack, wrenching the newspaper out of Justin’s hands. 

“But I was reading that!’ Justin protested. “Give it back!”

“No!” 

Justin reached for the paper, but Barack snatched it out of his grasp. Justin leaped out of bed and attempted to grab his paper, only for Barack to scramble out of the room and up the ladder and onto the deck of the boat. Justin thumped after him, to find Barack nearly at the railing.

“I want to read you the rest of that story! You have to hear it!” 

“Never!” 

Barack threw the paper over Justin’s head and into the deep waters of Lake Ontario. 

“Queenie!” yelled Justin frantically to his pet loon, who was sitting on the deck, ungainly feet tucked up, her head shuffled into her feathers. “Fetch!’

“Woooaaaauahhhuuuuu” cried Queenie mournfully, glaring at Justin with a reproachful red eye. She then proceeded to continue preening herself.

“Are you happy now?” Justin said, turning to Barack, who was looking more than a little amused. “Now I’ll never be able to share those details with you. I already read them and they’re burned into my brain and now you’ll be blissfully ignorant, you jerk.”

He stormed off as best as he was able, considering he had to walk down a flight of really tiny stairs.

“Oh, and don’t you dare take that Hot Shakespeare poster, it’s mine.”

 

Barack leaned on the railing, enjoying the sun on his arms and face, the twinkle of the water, and the distant sounds of geese and barges. However, his peace was abruptly disturbed by the sounds of _mmm mmm mmm mmm_ by the Crash Test Dummies, their auditory assault facilitated by Justin opening all the windows on the boat. Clearly Justin had decided to get revenge on Barack by playing his Super Canadian Mix, a playlist of tunes that ranged from the alright to the obnoxious, curated with patriotic fervour by Justin, and played whenever he was in a vengeful mood. He’d at least chosen not to include _The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald_ , agreeing with Barack that it would be tempting fate, seeing as they lived on a boat. On one of the great lakes. Thank god - that song went for three weeks.

Barack had tried to assemble his own Super American Mix, but so far the only song he could think to include was _American Pie_ , which also went for three weeks. One day he’d get there. Maybe he could start with some Toby Keith.

Justin began singing along to _Mmm mmm mmm mmm,_ loudly and deliberately out of tune. 

“Why the hell did you want to read that story so badly anyway?” yelled Barack in response. Half of his voice entered the cabin of the boat, the other half boomed out across the lake, causing some spotted sandpipers to flap off in alarm. Justin ignored him, and kept singing.

Barack sighed and looked at his phone, which had about one bar of reception on it. Well..that might be enough. 

 

In Toronto Sophie was opening up the yarn store she ran with her partner, Michelle. When the Obamas and the Trudeaus had broken up to essentially swap partners, they realised the situation was incredibly silly sounding, and dreaded having to explain it. They’d preface the story of how they got together with an “I know it sounds contrived,” or “believe you me this is like a bad plot twist but - “

It was such an implausible development in their lives that the thought of having to explain it was almost worse than any of the other difficulties that come with leaving your partner for someone else. However, they were all still close - and the whole situation had been more than amicable, so in the end it didn’t matter how much like a bad soap opera their life sounded. It did, however, mean that they found the premise of Grace and Frankie to be painfully old hat. Which was just as well because Justin and Barack couldn’t really get Netflix on the boat.

Sophie turned the sign around, reorganised some balls of yarn that had eagerly burst loose during the night and launched themselves across the floor somehow and made a cup of coffee. She’d just picked up her knitting - a sweater with extra-long arms that she was working on for an ice skating charity event - when the phone rung.

She picked up the phone and proceeded to drop one of her double pointed needles. It rolled away under the counter. Damn.

“Hello?” Sophie said, sounding exactly like someone who had just dropped one of their double pointed needles. It showed.

“Hi,” came Barack’s voice, sounding faint and slightly uncertain. “Did you just drop one of your needles or something?”

“How did you know?”

“Just a lucky guess. How’s Michelle?”

“Oh she’s pretty good, just at the farmer’s market. I told her not to buy those stupid golden beets this time.”

“Ah I remember the golden beets,” said Barack with mock wistfulness. “They tasted like tiny boiled planets.”

Sophie snorted with laughter, nearly spilling her coffee in the process. “Oh help,” she said weakly. “Well then. How’s things for you and Justin?”

“Pretty good,” came Barack’s voice, a little fuzzy from the bad reception. “How did you ever put up with him?”

“What’s he done now?” said Sophie, amused. “Is he still doing that thing where he walks into the room when you’re watching TV and starts talking about upcoming plot twists you haven’t gotten to?” She sighed. “He ruined The Wire for me.”

“No, not that, but that sounds like something he’d do.” 

“You want my suggestion? Buy butter tarts and then eat them in front of him and don’t give him one.”

“What? That’s stupid.” Barack didn’t want to admit that he couldn’t remember what a butter tart was, exactly. He kept imagining a custard tart with a solid layer of butter instead of the custard and couldn’t think of anything worse.

If there was one thing Sophie didn’t bargain for, it’s that the man she married would eventually leave her for the husband of the woman she’d end up with. If there’s another thing she didn’t anticipate, it’s that her wife’s ex husband would be calling her to ask about _her_ ex husband. She wished she was at the markets with Michelle. She’d probably even let her buy whatever colour of beets she wanted.

“Well, I’d usually suggest that you go for a walk to cool off and then when you come back he’ll just seem adorable again instead of annoying but you can’t do that, because you live on a _boat._ Now _that’s_ stupid. What happens when the lake freezes or if there’s a storm? If you were going to do the whole “I can’t decide what country to live in” thing, why couldn’t you live in one of those cross-border places like Wolfe Island or Sault Ste.Marie?” 

_God, I sound like someone’s wife,_ Sophie thought. And not in a good way, in a hack comedian way. _No, fuck it. Barack can solve his own Justin problems_ , she decided, but before she could express this thought, Barack’s voice came back, suddenly clear, as if he'd hit a pocket of good reception. 

“Sault Ste.Marie?” repeated Barack. “Why does that sound familiar?”

“It’s a Sufjan Stevens song?” Sophie said helpfully. There was a short pause. She could hear the sound of the lake in the background, lapping at the bows of the _Miranda_. 

“Oh god,” groaned Barack abruptly. “It’s from that Harper story Justin was reading this morning.”

“What Harper story?”

“Something about him dressing as a moose or something. God, I don’t even know. I didn’t really want to hear the details about some weird guy’s sex life, but Justin wouldn’t stop reading the story out loud so I had to throw it in the lake.”

“You two deserve each other,” said Sophie. At that moment, the door to the shop opened and in came Michelle, struggling with a huge bag of vegetables. Sticking out of the top insolently, was a bunch of golden beets.

“Oh goddamn it.”

 

 


End file.
